


Black Paint, Black Fingers

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angry Sex, Angst, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Consent Issues, Depression, Derek messes up big time, Dirty Talk, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Please read notes, Psych Ward, Rough Sex, Self Harm, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Slurs, Statutory Rape, Stiles is 17 when they first have sex, Stiles is fucked up, Stiles isn't old enough to drink obviously, Stiles technically cant give consent, Top Derek Hale, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, and keeps on messing up, hella full moon sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 07:33:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5325914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was April when it first happened.<br/>“You’re drunk.”<br/>“I came here because I want you to fuck me.”</p><p>or where Stiles has some alcohol, drug, and self-harm problems and Derek makes a lot of bad decisions.</p><p> </p><p>Title is taken from the old proverb "Touch black paint, have black fingers."<br/>For those of you who are worried about some rando speaking on this subject matter, please read my notes at the end!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fuck Me

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! first of all, PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF I SHOULD KEEP WRITING THIS. i'm not sure how much interest this will drag in, so please drop a comment if you can! this is my first try at a real fic since i can remember, so please be gentle with me! un-betaed like the last one so i'm so sorry for any mistakes and/or awkwardness. i'm not the best writer, keep in mind! i try my best, ha haaaaaaa a please read the tags friends or you might be upset
> 
> THIS FIC IS GOING TO BE SORT OF DARK AND POSSIBLY UPSETTING, PLEASE BE WARNED. THERE IS A HAPPY ENDING IN HERE SOMEWHERE, I PROMISE.

It was April when it first happened.

 

The rain hit hard outside, the sound flooding Derek’s apartment through open windows. The sky was darkening later now, and Derek missed the long nights and short days that came with the colder seasons. He would miss the rain when the Summer came and he would miss the barren trees. An empty longing filled his chest. The full moon hid somewhere behind the clouds, but Derek could still feel its pull.

The rain muffled the sound of the Jeep as it came closer, and Derek was only able to catch the flapping sound of the disintegrating belt in Stiles’ car a few seconds before it rolled into view. Derek stepped closer to his open window, peering down as the human pulled into the deserted parking lot. As soon as Stiles stepped out of the car Derek knew something was wrong. The way he moved seemed wrong, maybe wounded, exhausted. He fought desperately hard with himself to not run down and help Stiles out of the rain, reasoning that if the human needed his help then he could come get it. Derek’s heartbeat grew faster as the sounds of Stiles making his way up grew louder, every small step and lub-dub of blood deafening to him. He waited anxiously at the door, mustering all of his will power to don his usual mostly-apathetic-but-maybe-a-little-aggravated werewolf facade.

Before Stiles had the chance to knock, the smell hit Derek, and he met the first knock by flinging the door open without thought.

“You’re drunk.” Derek said flatly, looking down at the younger boy.

Derek wouldn't have been concerned if he knew Stiles wasn't alone, if he knew Stiles was just at a party or hanging out with friends, but he wasn't. Stiles had been drinking alone and Derek knew it.

Stiles laughed, wiping at his glassy eyes with the pads of his fingers. Laughing as if to mock Derek for his concern, to mock Derek for his assumption. Laughing as if he wanted to say that Derek was wrong but didn't have the courage to try to lie.

“You wouldn’t have to be a werewolf to smell the whiskey on your breath.” Derek sneered.

Stiles gave his eyes a lazy half-roll, brows furrowing lightly. Derek tried to subtly inspect Stiles, cheeks a bit more sunken than he recalls, rings underneath his eyes just emerging from pale skin, lips chapping.

“You haven’t _seen_ me drunk, buddy.” Stiles said, weakly reaching up to put a hand on the older man’s shoulder like they were old pals.

The werewolf recalled five months prior when Stiles had shown up with Scott, when Stiles was _definitely_ drunk, when Derek may or may not have been in heat, when they’d shared an awkward moment that Stiles may or may-not be here to drunkenly discuss. Scott pretended not to notice, but Derek sensed his stiffness. It was obvious that Scott knew something was going on with Stiles and yet wasn’t going to mention it out loud.

Derek took a slow step backward before turning to retreat into his loft, leaving the door open in a silent invitation. Why he was silently inviting a drunk seventeen year-old human into his home was beyond him, but he busied himself in the kitchen grabbing Stiles a glass of water anyway. Even on full blast, the time it took the faucet to fill the cup felt like an eternity, the sound grating. Stiles closed the door gracelessly behind him, stumbling awkwardly into the loft. Before he had the chance to speak whatever slurred words lie on his tongue, Derek was pushing a glass of water to his chest.

“Water.”

Stiles chuckled, eyelids heavy.

“Not thirsty, but thanks anyway.” His voice came out rasped and tired, yet he still managed to seem offended and irritated.

It almost reminded Derek of all the times he’d seen Stiles broken and exhausted and so human. But it was different now, he knew Stiles had changed.

“Drink,” Derek growled.

“You’re not leaving here drunk. You shouldn’t have even come here like this. I can’t believe you were dumb enough to drive here.” Derek turned quickly, his annoyance nearly failing to disguise his concern.

“I came here because I want you to fuck me.” Stiles drawled, albeit unintentionally, following it with a breathy and wrecked chuckle.

‘Shit.’ If Derek had hackles, they’d be raised. If he had less control under the full moon, his claws would be out. If he had half a brain he’d be calling the Sheriff to come get his underage yet oh-so-intoxicated son who was currently swaying softly from side-to-side.

“Get out, Stiles.”

“No,”

Derek turned, sudden and rough, and paced some steps closer to the boy. His muscles were tense, brow furrowed, eyes wild.

“Not until you _fuck me._ ” Stiles looked nearly as mad as Derek did at this point.

“Get. Out.” Derek’s shoulders raised slightly, his fingers twitching.

“Fuck. Me.” Stiles spat, his red eyes seemingly having trouble focusing.

The werewolf roared.

—————–

December. Just after Christmas. Stiles and Scott show up to discuss something that Derek couldn't even recall if he tried. Whatever it was, it wasn't more important than what ended up happening anyway. Stiles was drunk and for some reason Scott was pretending not to notice. Every time Stiles slurred his words or stumbled into Scott for balance, he got more and more tense. Scott, for once, seemed utterly unsure and uncomfortable and it worried Derek. Throughout the conversation, Scott looked like he wanted to bolt, to get out of the situation as quickly as possible.

"Uh, just a second, Derek, I'm gonna use your bathroom." Scott said, jerking his head toward the bathroom before disappearing.

Derek could hear Scott _not_ using the bathroom, but instead opening the window and perching on the side of the bath tub. He could hear him tap away at his keys as Stiles sauntered over.

"So, December, huh?" Stiles piped up, raising his eyebrows.

If Derek didn't know better he'd think Stiles was getting at something a bit unwholesome, though he didn't put it past him. The kid did do his research. The werewolf said nothing, crossing his arms and staring down at Stiles, who seemed much shorter when drunkenly slouched.

"Isn't that, you know," Stiles winked, opening his mouth just a bit.

Before Stiles could finish his thought Derek interrupted.

"Stiles, we're not just _wild wolves_." He said, trying not to make eye contact.

"Oh, so you don't know through a sex-crazed heat in December, then?"

Stiles seemed like he was joking, said it as if it were casual and buddy-buddy of them to talk about. But Derek knew better, could smell the underlying touch of arousal that bled through the human's curiosity. The werewolf didn't answer.

"Scott mentioned that you guys do, you know," Stiles inched clumsily closer, reaching a hand out to touch Derek's bicep.

"Mentioned that you guys get pretty fucking horny." He was in even closer now, body only inches away.

Derek took the opportunity to press against Stiles' chest, walking him backward into the wall.

"What do you think you're doing, Stiles?" Derek kept his voice even and low, trying not to give away his own budding arousal.

"What?" Stiles cooed, feigning innocence.

A slender hand reached down excruciatingly slowly, touching the crotch of Derek's jeans so softly at first he almost didn't catch it. Derek's cock twitched under the hand and he startled, nearly losing his balance. Stiles pressed further and Derek had no fucking clue why he wasn't stopping him, why he wasn't just stepping away. He hadn't had issues controlling his heat since high school and he wasn't about to lose control now. All it took was a rub and Derek was breathing a strained grunt. His eyes widened at his own stupid vocal chords as he snatched Stiles' hands in his and slammed them against the wall, resisting the instinct to rut up against the boy. Stiles eyes grew wide and his mouth tugged up at a corner and the smell of lust hit Derek hard. The human squirmed his hands against Derek's, not trying to get free, but almost just testing the strength the werewolf was using on him. Stiles let out a small, whimpering moan. He liked being handled this way.

" _Fuck._ " Derek whispered under his breath, eyelids lowering.

And then he heard Scott unlock the bathroom door.

Scott opened the door just in time to see a glimpse of the scene playing out, and Derek panicked. He grabbed Stiles by the back of the neck and roughly shoved him in Scott's direction.

"Take him home. _Now._ "

 

—————–

Gripping Stiles by the shirt, Derek threw him back against the door. His hands were hot and balled into fists by his side, clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing. Stiles eyes were wide with fear and, disturbingly, Derek could smell, lust.

“I know you want to fuck me, Derek.” Stiles teased, albeit breathlessly.

His hands were down, fingers splayed against the door, twitching anxiously. Derek said nothing, couldn’t, had no clue what he would say anyway. The younger boy took a hesitant and clumsy step (more like stumble) toward the wolf.

“I know you want to shove your fucking cock in my ass,” Stiles closed in and weakly gripped the front of Derek’s shirt, leaning in with too much weight.

“And you’d probably wanna fuck my mouth too, if I let you.”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

Derek didn’t dare move, his heart racing madly and his mind refusing to think about fucking Stiles’ soft, pink mouth.

“Wonder if you’d wanna tie me up,” Stiles leaned in a bit closer.

“Fuck me ‘til I cry.”

Stiles closed the gap between them, smiling against Derek’s jaw.

“Bet you like that shit, huh?"

Derek reached up and with one swift motion shoved the human to the ground. He hated the spike in the sharp smell of Stiles’ arousal as he was thrown down, hated that his own eyelids lowered ever so slightly with lust. Stiles lie splayed on the floor, weekly holding his head up until he had to let it fall back onto the hard ground out of sheer drunkenness. He stared up at Derek through his bottom lashes, chest heaving with excitement, brow furrowed in annoyane. Derek turned, prepared to walk up his stairs and leave the drunk boy to pass out on the floor and maybe sober up, but he heard him scramble to his feet instead. His sneakers shuffled frantically, clearly inhibited beyond usual uncoordination. “Fuck me, you pussy!” Stiles shouted, shoving roughly at Derek’s back.

Suddenly, a sharp crack went off in the werewolf’s mind and before he knew what he was doing he had whipped around, grabbing the human by his throat and walking him briskly backward until he hit the wall next to the open window.

“You wanna be _fucked_ , Stiles?” Derek sneered.

“Then I’ll _fuck_ you.” Derek tightened his grip on Stiles neck before releasing it, his mind barely clear enough not to press down further in dominance.

With a nearly-fully clawed hand, Derek gripped Stiles’ hair, pulling him forward and finagling him so he was turned, face pressed against the wall. Stiles laughed bitterly and somewhere inside Derek it spiked fear and pity and sadness. But he couldn’t stop, not anymore, not under this moon.

“Always putting yourself into situations you can’t handle.” Derek snarled against Stiles’ ear.

Another dark laugh, the boys lip snarling as his face rubbed against the hard wall.

“Try me.” Stiles retorted.

Suddenly, Derek had the boy’s hands above his head, wrists pinned in one strong hand and not even straining to get out. Stiles lips remained curled in a rotten and inebriated way that made Derek want to fuck the look off his face, so he yanked jeans and briefs and boxers down until he could press his cock against Stiles’ lower back. The size was apparent to Stiles without even looking, sending a shiver through him that Derek could _feel._ Derek looked down at the pale, mole-dotted skin beneath him, the wolf inside him howling to get inside. He spat in his free hand as well as he could, something in him still not willing to just shove in. A few rounds of hasty spit and Derek’s cock seemed almost slick enough to push at Stiles’ hole. He needed to fuck and, what’s more, he needed to show Stiles that he was in over his head.

“Fucking do it.” Stiles breathed, trying to see Derek out of the corner of his eye.

Stiles looked absolutely fucked, and not in a post-coital way. He looked pathetic. Broken and wanting and utterly different. Derek sloppily and hurriedly lined up and pushed in without any hesitation. Stiles clenched his teeth, shoulders twisting at the pain. It was too dry and the pull was too much, but Derek kept shoving in, shoving in, shoving in. The human let out a strangled exclamation, his hips twisting and his breathing becoming labored. Derek knew it hurt and something in him wanted so badly to stop, but the smell of excitement Stiles was giving off just kept his wolf at it, kept him in his monstrous state. All the way in now, Derek realized his canines had elongated, grazing the skin on Stiles shoulder, a clawed hand gripping the boy’s hip to hold him in place.

“Bitch.”

Derek didn’t know what he was saying until he’d already said it, and the part of him that needed to stop, to let the boy go and do the right thing, that part of him was mortified. The moonlight shone in through the open windows now, and Derek knew that without it he would have retreated, would be flushed red and locking himself away from Stiles. But the wolf was stronger than him right now, and the wolf had fantasized about claiming Stiles for far too long. Stiles let out another stifled sound as he pulled back, painful and slow.

“Does it hurt, Stiles? Is this what you wanted?” Derek growled against the boy’s cheek.

The question was mostly posed rhetorically, so Derek didn’t expect the drained and watery “yes” that escaped Stiles’ mouth as he started pushing back in. It caught even the sick, hungry part of Derek off-guard. It made that part of him snap his hips forward the rest of the way, made him thrust into Stiles so hard that you could hear his hips knock against the wall even without super hearing. Another pained sound, yet underneath lie a sigh of relief, a sigh like Stiles had been holding it in for years. It made Derek cringe.

“Please…” Stiles voice was so quiet and soft and rasped that you could barely tell it was his.

Derek roared in frustration, probably all too loud for Stiles’ ears at this range. Stiles flinched, his body tensing as if he was going to be hit by a speeding vehicle. Why was he doing this? What the fuck happened to him that this is what he thought he needed? Why wasn’t this scaring him away like Derek had hoped? Why couldn’t Derek fucking control himself? The werewolf threw Stiles to the ground, making him wince as Derek’s cock slid roughly from his ass.

“What the are you _doing_ , Stiles?” Derek demanded.

He knew he was shifted now, knew his eyes glowed and his fangs protruded. He stared down at Stiles, probably even more confused and conflicted than the boy was. Stiles just stared up at him, mouth open just slightly, eyes drooping, skull trying not to loll about on his spine.

“I need it, Derek.”

Through the twitch that rang through his cock, and through the surge of lust he felt staring down at the fragile human below him, Derek felt his heart sink. Stiles wasn’t lying to himself, he wasn’t trying to convince himself that he wanted this, wasn’t trying to scramble for what he needed. Stiles really thought this was some sort of solution to something, some kind of outlet or catharsis or fucked up therapy. And so Derek let Stiles have that. Let his anger and frustration with the boy fade away until he was defeated.

“Turn over,” Derek breathed.

“On your hands and knees.”

Stiles complied, albeit clumsily and stuttering. Derek kneeled behind him, running a hand across the pale expanse of Stiles’ ass before gripping and kneading and pushing at his body. He pressed Stiles’ chest into the ground as he lined up his cock again, mouth open and bottom jaw jutted slightly forward. A surge of pleasure rang through his body as he pushed in, suddenly gripping at Stiles’ hips, snapping forward to shove into the tight hole he was being given. When Stiles released a pained moan Derek knew that he had to, had to let himself go and fuck Stiles just the way they both apparently wanted. And so he did, he let go, fast and hard and punishing. The sound Stiles made every time Derek slammed back in didn’t sound much like sex noises at this point, but more like gritted-teeth grunts when a pain you’re expecting finally hits. Derek remembered telling Peter to punch him when he was young, just to see what it was like to feel pain out of the context of fighting or training, just to see what harmless pain felt like. But Derek knew this wasn’t a harmless pain.

“Fucking slut,” Derek was talking again without realizing it and he was cringing inside, slapping himself in the face over and over and over again.

“You’re so fucked up Stiles,” Derek breathed, leaning forward to grip at Stiles’ hair and heave him up onto his hands and knees.

“Taking my cock like such a good boy.” Derek hissed into all-to-willing ears.

Stiles’ teeth were gritted and his eyes were brimming with tears and the human in Derek cried for Stiles to just tell him to stop, to tell him he changed his mind and that he didn’t want this after all. But his wolf could smell it, smell some kind of pleasure radiating from Stiles and convincing him that this was okay. It killed him inside to see the boy this way. He was always so dedicated and willful and, while not fearless, prepared to push through the fear and do what was right. But now, like this, after the Nogitsune, Stiles only seemed strong enough to demand a temporary fix, a hard fuck, pain. Derek could barely hear himself breathe over the sounds Stiles made, sounds that would probably concern anyone who overheard them, sounds that would make Derek sick tomorrow. But he kept fucking. Kept going harder and faster and harder and faster, until the smell of blood rising too close to the surface of Stiles skin hit him like a ton of bricks. The smell of Stiles fucked hole nearly bleeding with too much force and too little lubrication. Derek collapsed forward, eyes wide, perching himself with strong arms atop Stiles, who bowed awkwardly under the muscled body. He stopped moving then, stopped fucking into the boy with such wild abandon, somehow getting a grip on the wild animal hurting the breakable thing in its clutches.

“D-… please-…” Stiles whimpered, nearly unintelligible.

Derek clenched his teeth, trying his best to hold back, trying not to hurt Stiles any further. How had he let it get this far?

“Please, please, pleasepleaseplease-” Stiles mumbled, a tear escaping and slipping down his cheek.

The werewolf reached up, gripping Stiles hair and slowly pushing him back down again, pressing his face into the floor probably hard enough to bruise his cheek. Derek shook with effort, effort to not keep fucking this drunk teenager who had no idea what he was doing or what he wanted. He couldn’t remember the last time he tried so hard. Yet, it wasn’t enough, not with the slurred, pathetic mumbling and pleading and begging escaping from Stiles’ wet mouth, drooling a small puddle onto the floor. Not with the way Stiles’ tight asshole kept clenching around Derek’s cock like it needed more. And so the wolf pushed through again. Pushed by Derek’s rational thoughts like it was an animal gnawing it’s leg from a trap.

 

-


	2. All I Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second time Stiles shows up drunk and the second time Derek loses control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kind of short! not super eventful! next chapter will be getting to the real stuff. HEAVILY UNBETAED. only read through this once so read at your own risk, to be honest aahaaa

The second time it happens is in May.

Derek is half expecting it. Hasn’t seen Stiles since the last time, but knows it’s the full moon, knows Stiles has been missing school, knows Stiles is falling deeper down whatever hole he’s stumbled into. Derek got a call from the Sheriff just a couple of days beforehand, asking if he knew where his son was. In all honesty, Derek had no idea, but just speaking to the man felt like lying after what he’d done to Stiles. He wanted to reach out and tell Stiles he was sorry, offer some real help and try to drag him up by his bootstraps. But Derek didn’t know if it was okay to ever speak to the boy again after what had happened. After what Derek had let himself do.

So when the sound of the Jeep rounds the corner Derek nearly goes into a panic. The entire room feels like thin ice, like if he touched anything the building would fall down around him. A flood of emotions took over, but he’d be damned if he could tell you what any of them were. His brain was scattered and his heart was racing and the sun was fading too quickly. Derek had always had a penchant for the longer nights, but now, here, when he knew he could lose control over Stiles like he had, he dreaded the moon.

The golden light from the last sliver of sun shone up through the windows, illuminating the usually murky loft with a piercing warm light. Derek could swear he stood there for so long waiting for Stiles to make his way up that when the knock finally came he was decades older. He felt worn and scared.

“I know you heard me coming up here, Derek, just open the door.” Stiles hiccuped, muffled by the heavy door.

Derek backed away from the door, wanting so badly to ignore him. But if he left and Derek let him drive home drunk? What if Stiles crashed? What if he died because Derek was ignoring him after the mistake that  _he_  himself made? The werewolf slowly stepped toward the door, taking an excruciating amount of time to get there, hoping that if Stiles had enough time to think about this he would cool down before he tried anything he shouldn’t. Or was it Derek that needed to cool down?

“Stop coming here like this.” Derek said flatly as he opened the door.

Stiles barked a laugh, slapping a hand on Derek’s chest like he’d made a joke. He didn’t even reply, just breezed past Derek and into the loft, like a ghost refusing to rest.

“What, are you gonna kick me out?” Stiles said with a smirk, turning to face Derek.

“You and I both know you’re not going to!” The boy laughed out.

“What if I, you know, ‘crash my car drunk driving’ or whatever.” Stiles laughed again, playing like he was invincible. 

It churned Derek’s stomach. Stiles thought this was a fucking joke.

“If you come here again like this I’m calling your father.” Derek said, curling his upper lip into a snarl.

“Uh huh, yeah, and then I tell him what we did last time I was here.” Stiles blinked lazily, smirking up at Derek.

Derek tried holding back a growl, his entire body trembling tightly.

“I see you’ve been busy!” Stiles swung his body around drunkenly.

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and nodded in the direction of the broken coffee table, the broken chairs, the marks on the floor, the shredded couch. A pang of shame ran through the werewolf. Stiles still smirked, as if he was proud that he was the reason for the wrecked loft. Derek wanted to hold him down and force him to just go the fuck to sleep, to sober up and just get the hell out in the morning, but he didn’t know if he should touch Stiles ever again. When Stiles paced closer to Derek, it made him want to cower in the darkness. He wanted to hide from whatever he was capable of doing to Stiles. This broken little human that thought this, whatever it was, was okay.

Stiles was in a worn t-shirt, stretched slightly at the collar, a plaid flannel with too many pills on it, a pair of jeans that Derek could smell hadn’t been washed in weeks. His hair was disheveled, and not in the delicate and intentional way it used to be, disheveled like he had tossed and turned through too many nightmares and passed out on too many floors. His eyes were dark and glassy and it nearly reminded Derek of when the Nogitsune’s grip on the boy was tight, strangling. Not that it wasn’t still, in a different way. Something in Derek’s heart gave, and suddenly he felt so vulnerable. His heart ached.

“What have you done to yourself?” Derek uttered to quietly it may have been a whisper.

Stiles laughed nervously, biting his lower lip and shrugging, avoiding eye contact with Derek. He didn’t know what to say, probably didn’t care enough to say anything.

“I don’t want to do this with you, Stiles. You need help, and I can’t give it to you.”

Derek’s shoulders slumped, his eyelids lowering in a bodily sorrow that he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

“I don’t need help. Not from you or anyone else.” Stiles was getting agitated and Derek could sense it.

Derek tried to retort but Stiles was speaking again, still growing ever-closer, an impending doom.

“All I need is a fuck.” He reached out, brushing Derek’s jaw so sweetly that the werewolf thought it was almost genuine for a second.

Derek hated himself for the way his cock twitched, for the way his mind immediately ran straight into thoughts he had tried to desperately to tamp down. Stiles reached down languidly unbuttoning Derek’s pants as if he had all the time in the world, like he knew Derek was frozen scared. His mind went fuzzy, his heart beating too fast and his fingers numb, his vision blurring. It felt like a swarm of bees had engulfed him, drowning him as punishment for not being able to stop what Stiles was determined to do.

When his vision cleared he was horrified to find Stiles kneeling in front of him, his hands tangled in the boy’s hair tightly. Stiles breathed against Derek’s now bare cock, twitching up against his lips uncontrollably. He couldn’t stop himself from pushing his cock at Stiles’ face, trying to get some sort of friction, to feel something. And then Stiles was sliding his mouth down over Derek’s cock, deeper and deeper until it hit the back of his throat. And then he stilled, trying to look up at Derek through his lashes but too close to be successful.

“ _Fuck, Stiles._ ” Derek hissed, tightening his grip further in the soft but under-washed hair.

He cringed as he pressed Stiles deeper still, shoving his dick against the back of his throat, closing off what access Stiles had to air. When Stiles gagged and spluttered, Derek drew him back, letting him gasp for a few breaths before shoving him back down. What the hell was he doing? Why was he doing this again?

Stiles strained against Derek’s grip, attempting to pick up the pace, and Derek knew he wanted it harder, knew that he wanted his face fucked until tears rolled down his cheeks and spit dribbled out of his taught lips. And Derek hated it.  _Derek_  hated it. The real, sensible, protective, cautious Derek hated that Stiles wanted to be used like a toy. That Derek’s heart was breaking, wanted to vomit in the kitchen sink at how sick he was with himself. But the other side of him, the side of him that demanded something to conquer, something to bite and dominate and own, that part reveled in the feeling. And right now, under the moon, that part of him was winning.

He followed the pace Stiles attempted to set, and then maybe then some, relentlessly fucking the soft pink mouth that welcomed him greedily. Stiles was trying not to gag, it was obvious in the way his back arched and tongue slid over Derek’s cock, but with every few thrusts he couldn’t help it, nearly retching around him. Spit hung heavy and stringy whenever Derek pulled off and allowed him to take in air. The sight of it drove him further, made him want to see even more, to ruin the boy even further.

“That’s it, take it like a good boy, Stiles.” Derek slipped out between pleasureful hisses.

“Fucking love my cock, don’t you?” He yanked Stiles head back, giving him an opportunity to answer.

Stiles could only nod hastily, tongue running across the top of his lower front teeth, his breath coming out in hot pants. Derek hummed in contentment and his eyelids fluttered in lust as he shoved Stiles back down onto his dick, resuming his pace. He could feel his orgasm start to burn, his balls tightening and his abs twitching with building pleasure. Derek pulled Stiles off, grabbing his cock quickly and pumping at it furiously. The hand that was in Stiles’ hair suddenly slipped and, to both of their surprise, Derek slapped Stiles hard across the face, turning his head sideways and setting off his balance.

And then his hand was back gripping at the boy’s hair, yanking him back in front of his cock just in time for Derek to release. The come painted Stiles’ face, flushed and fucked and drunk and wanting. The moment felt like it lasted forever, the come seeming endless and the orgasm unrelenting. It was like nothing Derek had ever felt, though in a good or bad way he wasn't sure. Stiles dropped backward when Derek finally released his hold, catching himself clumsily on his palms, legs splayed awkwardly.

When Derek lookde down at the mess he’d made of the boy, one eye squinting through come and the other barely able to stay open, mouth mostly slack but for the hint of a smile and head looking heavier than he was able to support, it broke him. He slammed back against the wall behind him, heart dropping out of his chest. If Derek was ever close to a panic attack, this was probably it, he thought. How the fuck had he let this happen again?

“Shit...” Derek’s eyes were wide, his hand reaching up to rest on his heart, as if he could console it with a touch.

“Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit.”

Derek scrambled to tug his shirt off, kneeling down so quickly in front of Stiles that his knees made a loud thump. He tried his best to wipe the mess of of Stiles’ face, but the boy was so out of it that he had to brace his cheek in his hand to get at any of it. Stiles drew in a deep breath and it seemed like maybe he was coming out of whatever haze he was in, letting out a gentle, spluttering cough before batting Derek’s hands away lazily.

“’S... fine... Derek” He mumbled, starting to wipe at his own face his a shirtsleeve.

“This is definitely  _not fucking fine_ , Stiles.” Derek shook his head, heart still hammering so hard he thought it might give out at any second.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Derek whispered out as he dropped the shirt to run his hands through his hair.

“Stiles, I’m so sorry-”

Stiles interrupted him with a short and somehow critical laugh.

“Don’t start with this shit, dude. I wanted it.”

The boy moved to get up, staggering about for a few feet before bracing himself on one of the pillars in the loft. He pressed at his heavy eyes with his index finger and thumb.

“I asked for it. And I don’t regret it.”

Derek didn’t hear a skip in his heart, didn’t hear a tell that Stiles was lying, but he couldn’t help the strangling guilt. His words tangled in his throat, choking him like they could kill him and put him out of his misery, but he couldn’t spit them out. He wanted nothing more than to say something consoling, something that would rip Stiles from the dark monster’s grasp. He wanted to hold Stiles until he was sober, and even beyond, until he went through shaking withdrawals and horrible fits and endless tears, until he lost any desire to keep doing this to himself, until he was  _Stiles_  again.

He ended up on Derek’s couch again that night, tossing restlessly, even in his inebriated slumber, mumbling awful things that Derek wished he couldn’t make out.


	3. Staying in My Play Pretend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stiles is missing. We need you to find him.”
> 
> Of course Derek has to be the one to find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please keep commenting ! it's super motivating and lovely and ahh ! 'v'
> 
> FIRSTLY, tHIS CHAPTER MIGHT BE REALLY UPSETTING!! so be careful out there in the fanfiction void. take care of urselves
> 
> secondly, THANK YOUUUU EVERYONE WHO HAS COMMENTED!! yall are really too nice, i was expecting like two comments like "keep goin bro" but you guys got my back. chapter title taken from habits by tove lo (the hippie sabotage remix is really vibe-y for this fic, in case u wanna listen while u read~)
> 
> thanks !!!!

It’s barely even two full days before Derek gets a call on his cell phone.

The caller ID says “Sheriff Stilinski” and for a moment Derek is absolutely terrified.

“Have you seen Stiles?” The Sheriff says before Derek even gets in a greeting.

Derek stutters for a moment, debating whether or not he was going to be honest with the father of the boy he’d technically  _raped_.  _Twice_.

“I, uh, I saw him two days ago.” He admits, bracing himself for the absolute worse.

“ _Shit_.” The Sheriff mumbles under his breath.

He couldn’t be sure, but Derek thought he heard a little bit of guilt bleed through the man’s frustration.

“You see him, you bring him home, okay?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

Since when did Derek start calling the Sheriff “sir”?

“Thanks.”

The Sheriff hung up without giving Derek a chance to say anything more, to let himself admit what he’d done, to turn himself in. If Derek would have actually done it, he couldn’t be sure.

\-------- 

The next morning he gets a call from Scott. It’s 11am on a weekday and Derek knows he’s supposed to be in school, but he answers anyway, a feeling of uneasiness creeping up his spine.

“Scott?” Derek knows he lets his worry slip through.

“Stiles is missing. We need you to find him.”

 _Of course_  Derek has to be the one to find him.

\--------

Derek has been running around town for hours on end, picking up a scent, dropping it, picking it up again, dropping it, over and over again. He’s exhausted and frantic and his throat tight on the verge of sobbing. Where had Stiles gone? What could he be getting himself into?

The sky was lazily dripping down onto the town, barely above a mist. The sun was low and reflecting off the shallow puddles on the asphalt that Derek found himself following to the edge of town. Past the failing business in pale strip malls, past empty lots full of beige rubble, past the humming substation, sizzling under the rain. It seemed endless and Derek couldn’t remember Beacon Hills ever feeling so expansive and dark and hopeless. It didn’t feel like the town he grew up in when Derek was chasing a ghost like Stiles so desperately.

Eventually the scent took him to a warehouse in an industrial park, and Derek knew at first sight what it was. The line of people outside wrapped around the corner of the building, the imposing looking doorman who seemed to have notice him staring even from a distance. Music thrummed from inside, already too loud for Derek’s ears. He hadn’t seen or even heard of this club before (given, he had never exactly frequented clubs) but he knew he could get in easily, if not through the front door then through some other means.

The bouncer folded his arms and chuckled when Derek nonchalantly flashed him two one hundred dollar bills.

“I get paid well enough buddy, get lost.” He scoffed, turning away from Derek, but glancing at him from the corner of his eye.

Forced to explore other methods, Derek found himself atop the building. The side was easy enough to scale and the top of the building had a door leading down into it. Luckily, he made it up just before two stumbling women spilled out of the door, probably looking to catch some fresh air. The club was so pungent Derek nearly wanted to breathe through his mouth to escape the some of smell. The women gave him a wary look, but Derek couldn’t have cared less at that moment. He surged his way by them and grabbed the door before it closed, slipping through and into the pulsing building.

Downstairs, Derek had a hard time smelling Stiles over the countless odors of the club. People, alcohol, perfumes, chemicals, smoke. It clouded Derek’s sense of smell just like the glaring music clouded his hearing, only just able to make out what people a few feet away were yelling to each other. Purple and blue lights flashing from above made it hard to see distinct faces in the crowd, only illuminating them briefly and seemingly never from the same angle. Fear began to set in as Derek scanned the room. How could he find Stiles like this?

After some time frantically striding around the floor Derek could swear he caught a glance of Stiles exiting one of the private booths on the edge of the room, but he disappeared into the crowd as quickly as he emerged. He hurriedly worked his way in that direction, pushing through so many sexually charged 20 year olds he thought he might drown. Another glimpse across the floor, and then he lost him again. Another a bit closer, in a different direction, and then gone. A flash of the boys face, eyes dark and inattentive, and then, suddenly, vanished. Derek felt like he was chasing a phantom who moved inhumanly fast through an accumulation of people that seemed endlessly dense.

“Stiles!”

He wasn’t even sure if the people three feet away could hear him.

“Stiles!” He called again, entirely unsure of what good he thought it was doing.

He chased the glimpses back across the room, back again near the booths at the edge of the room. They stumbled out of the crowd at nearly the same time, breaching the threshold into the narrow clearing near the velvet ropes sectioning off the booths. Derek reached out as fast as he could to grab Stiles, tugging him over by the shoulder.

“Stiles!” He shouted, hard to hear even at close range.

“Hey, Sourwolf!” Stiles shouted, his eyelids heavy.

Derek yanked him in closer, close enough to sniff at his neck.

“What the fuck have you been taking?” Derek pulled back to look Stiles in the eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know, a few different things actually.” Stiles giggled, leaning into Derek’s hand. 

The werewolf turned, hand slipping down to grip Stiles’ wrist. He dragged the boy into a curtained booth where three unsuspecting club-goers stared wide-eyed, two lines of coke still left on the table. They were obviously interrupting but Derek couldn’t have cared less.

“Out.” Derek snarled, flashing glowing eyes and long teeth at the three of them before they scurried out frantically.

Derek tossed Stiles against a wall, purposefully not pinning him there for his own sake. Stiles laughed and winced.

“Hey, ow, dude.” He giggled.

“Stop this.” Derek spat.

Stiles rolled his head against the wall, eyes closed and mouth just barely open.

“Can’t you just let me fucking destroy myself without pretending like you care?”

Derek was caught off guard, not expecting such an intelligible sentence by a long shot. Stiles looked far too out of it to be able to talk so completely.

“What the fuck do you mean  _pretending_?!” Derek raised his voice well over the curtain-muffled music.

Stiles swung his head down and back up again, intentionally or not Derek couldn’t tell. It worried Derek the way he seemed to not have control over what his body was doing, like he couldn't keep his eyes open or stay still.

“Why can’t anyone just let me  _do_  this. Always fucking nagging at me.” Stiles whined, clenching his eyes weakly and shoving the back of his wrist into a socket. 

Stiles’ stretched and worn sleeve fell down his arm, nearly down to his elbow, and Derek’s eyes caught onto a sight he immediately recognized. Heavy gashes across the pale skin, some so new Derek thought they might still be open. Without thinking, he reached forward, grabbing Stiles’ wrist above where the cuts started and pressing against the wall. A wave of confusing emotions crashed against Derek. He didn’t know if he was more scared or more disappointed. His eyelids fluttered, tears threatening to form in the corner of his eyes. He glanced from Stiles’ wrist to the boy’s face. Stiles eyes were barely open, glancing sideways at Derek with an emotion he couldn’t read. Was there even an emotion there?

“Please let me take you home.” Derek said quietly.

Stiles laughed, attempting to throw his head back but only succeeding in smacking it against the wall.

“Wow, how forward of you, Mr. Wolf.” Stiles drawled, leaning his head toward Derek’s hand where it still held his wrist.

“You know what I mean, Stiles.”

Derek turned and began pulling Stiles out of the booth, but Stiles pulled back weakly, trying his best in his current state to dig his heels into the ground.

“Hey, wait, I need to grab my benzos!” Stiles twisted against Derek’s grip.

The werewolf growled, pulling the boy in close to his chest easily.

“You don’t need to grab anything, you’re going  _home_.  _Now_.”

“I paid money for those!” Stiles whined, still feebly twisting against the werewolf’s hand.

For a split second Derek wondered if this was the right thing to do, if this was at all the right way to handle someone in Stiles’ position. Derek leaned in close, exhausted and sick to his stomach and insecure. He rested his head against the side of Stiles', his eyes closing, mouth in close to the younger boy’s ear.

“Please.” Derek spoke as quietly as he could while still being audible in the godforsaken place.

Stiles scoffed, rolling his shoulder and leaning his head away from Derek’s, as if the possibility of truly intimate contact made him uncomfortable. It was like Stiles hadn’t gotten the attention and support he needed and now he detested the idea of it, like he had learned to hate himself so much that anyone doing anything but hurting him or humoring him seemed wrong.

After some finagling and a few instances of wrapping both arms around the boy to get him through the crowd, Derek finally got him out the exit, waving down one of the cabs that was parked outside and waiting for intoxicated party-goers. The cab driver got out and hurriedly opened the door for the both of them, obviously observing that Stiles had grown even more slack in Derek’s grips, the werewolf having to use both arms to keep him supported evenly.

Once in the cab Stiles seemed like he could barely keep his eyes open, head drooped back against the seat and moving slowly, restlessly, back and forth. Derek eyed him, worry threatening to dissolve his stomach with mass amounts of acid. Just as Derek felt like he might throw up purely out of nerves, Stiles chest pulsed, his throat releasing a muffled sound. He had at least enough active brain cells to slump forward, vomiting in the corner of the cab.

Stiles laughed breathily.

“Shit, dude.” His voice was hoarse from being in the club for who knows how many hours.

The cab driver groaned, closing the partition as to avoid the acrid smell of vomit that was mostly alcohol. Derek was about to apologize, but it didn’t seem like his place, and it didn’t seem like the driver was wholly unused to fucked up passengers in his car vomiting (there were rubber mats fitted perfectly over the floor). Stiles rested his head against the front seat, looking like he could throw up again at any second.

The ride to Stiles’ house was long, Derek unable to say a single word to either Stiles or the driver until they pulled up and Derek handed him a wad of cash, not bothering to check how much he forked over. As Derek hoisted Stiles out of the cab, the front door to the house opened. The Sheriff came speed-walking out, donning his uniform as if he was about to head out. His face was nearly blank but for wide, worried eyes.

“Thank god.” He muttered, going to help Derek lift Stiles up until he remembered werewolves and their inhuman strength.

“Oh, thank god.” He repeated, running a hand through his hair.

Derek carried Stiles inside easily, picking him nearly all the way off the ground to get him up the stoop and through the door, the Sheriff hovering nervously the entire time, inspecting his son who had nearly passed out after getting him inside. He laid Stiles on the couch before turning to the Sheriff, who stood nervously like he had something to say.

“I’ve... gotta get into the station.” The embarrassment in his voice was nearly palpable.

“I’m sorry,” He shook his head, staring down at his son.

He hesitated, lips twitching around his words.

“Do you think you could stay here with him tonight?” He asked, still staring at Stiles.

Derek’s first instinct was to beg off, tell the Sheriff that being around his son recently had resulted in the worst decisions he’s made in a long time, tell him that Stiles needed his father here tonight, not Derek. But when the man looked up at him, brows furrowed and lips trying not to tremble, he couldn’t say no. Stiles seemed in no condition to get up and come on to Derek anyway, and without the full moon Derek was the farthest thing from about-to-make-a-move.

“Sure.” Derek nodded once, breaking eye contact with the Sheriff before it killed him.

“Thanks, son. You’re a good man.”

Derek couldn’t muster the strength to reply to that at all, the Sheriff heading out the door with one last mournful glance at his son, who was weakly twisting, beads of sweat forming near his hairline.

‘ _... a good man._ ’ The words rang in Derek’s head.

He was anything but good, not for Stiles.

“Let’s get you up to your room.” Derek said more to himself than to Stiles.

He hoisted the boy up off the couch gently, slinging his arm under Stiles’ armpits, his other hand curling around to make sure Stiles didn’t collapse forward. Stiles mumbled as they made their way up the stairs, achingly slow, and his words were so slurred that even Derek couldn’t make anything out. His breath reeked of vomit and vodka and the werewolf tried not to snarl. If Derek couldn’t hear Stiles heartbeat, steady and strong, he’d be painfully scared, would probably be calling for an ambulance then and there.

When they’d finally reached Stiles’ bedroom, Derek laid him down again, pressing him into the bed softly, trying to ground him back in a familiar place. Stiles eyes cracked open and all Derek could see in them was loathing. His lips were pursed so slightly that Derek could have missed it. He was furious with Derek, but apparently not about to move, at least.

“I’m going to get you some water. I’m not going anywhere.” Derek cooed, trying to ignore disdainful look from the boy and instead opting for an attempt at a comforting tone.

Derek tried not to back out of the room as to keep an eye on the boy, but he did give a long, lingering glance as he left the room, leaving the door open. He made his way through the dark house, the sun entirely set and the waning moon high in the sky. The light cast from the streetlights outside was eerie, making the suburban home feel haunted by anything other than a broken family. He made his way cautiously through the house, as if knocking into something would set off a chain reaction and the house would come crumbling down, or as if it would wake the sleeping beast inside of Stiles and Derek would be brutally murdered by alcohol and benzos and ecstasy and slit wrists. Derek didn’t bother turning on any lights, it felt wrong to him to inhabit this house in any way. He was here only to make sure Stiles didn’t die in his sleep or crawl out the front door and back into a club or whatever Derek was terrified of.

Derek was filling the glass he had grabbed down for Stiles when he smelled the sharp and familiar metallic smell. The smell that he’d become so intimately acquainted with that he dropped the cup into the sink, not even bothering to turn the faucet off. He moved faster than he knew he could, pouncing up the stairs and crashing through the door in record time. Stiles was propped on his elbow, head lolling against his shoulder, arm outstretched with his free hand gripping a small, thin piece of metal, blood already dripping down the curve of his arm and onto the sheets. He didn’t even take notice as Derek surged through the room, pretended like Derek was just an apparition that he’d become all too accustomed to. Derek grabbed the hand holding the razor and twisted it over Stiles’ body, pinning it against the bed.

Stiles writhed under Derek’s hands, both now pinning him to the bed, one hand interlocked with the boy’s as to avoid gripping the bloody mess that had been made. Derek bristled as Stiles clenched his hand around the razor, slicing into his palm and fingers and sending blood immediately pouring. He moved to grip both of Stiles’ wrists in one of his own, struggling frantically to get his cell phone out of his pocket.

“J’s fucking lemme die.” Stiles ground out, eyes clenched and eyebrows knitted.

Derek tried not to crush Stiles’ wrists in a panic, in an effort to just keep him still and safe. He punched in 911, fingers somehow sticky with Stiles’ blood.

“Get the fuck off me!” The boy yelled, apparently mustering enough strength and clarity to only just slur his words.

The operator picked up and Derek spoke deliriously into the phone, Stiles still yelling (as best as he could) in the background. Derek couldn’t tell you exactly what he said, all he knows is that help was on the way, that someone was going to come take Stiles to a place where he’d be safe from himself for once. Stiles yelled until his voice nearly went, bleeding into the sounds of the sirens as each vehicle pulled up outside the house. For some reason Derek’s ears were hot with embarrassment, with shame that he had let things get this bad without intervening, with fear that Stiles would never come out of this because _he_ was too late.

The paramedics made their way upstairs, helping Derek to manipulate the razor out of Stiles’ gushing hand. Derek pretended to be human as he helped the responders wrangle Stiles down the stairs and into the ambulance, holding back his strength even through his frenzied panic.

They offered to let Derek ride in the back of the ambulance, but he turned the offer down, only able to reply with worried eyes and a shake of his head. His hand was by his side, fingers splayed so as to not be able to feel the texture of Stiles’ blood on his skin. The ambulance and police car drove off, sirens not on and lights not flashing, even though Derek felt like this was the only emergency in the world.


	4. Division

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek visits somewhere that even just a year prior he never would have imagined Stiles being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR YOUR COMMENTS !!!!!!! you are precious, all of you !!
> 
> WARNING: there's an awkward pov switch kind of in the middle of this. i felt like i wanted to get a little more personal with stiles and i'm a bad writer so :y sorry 'bout it
> 
> ALSO WARNING: this chapter takes place entirely in a mental health ward so if that makes you uncomfortable or is potentially triggering for you, please don't read ! just tell ur cool friend to summarize it for you or somethin'
> 
> thanks !!
> 
> p.s. in case u dont understand the slippers thing, it's because of shoelaces

Derek writes his name on the sign-in clipboard and hands it back to the receptionist. She instructs him to put his jacket and anything in his pockets into one of the open lockers behind him. He’s so tired he can barely process the information being given to him, but he manages to shove his things inside clumsily, the receptionist locking it behind him. If she notices how absolutely wrecked he is, she doesn’t say anything, but then she probably sees people worse off than him on the daily. She writes down his locker number on the clipboard in a column next to his name.

“Thanks.” He murmurs as she presses the button to open the double doors in front of him.

“No problem, hon.” She smiles, clasping her hands and waiting for him to walk through the doors.

It takes him a moment, but he makes his way through, the sterile smell of the psych ward strangling him. The doors close behind him almost immediately and he feels like he’s just been locked inside a haunted house until the son comes up. He’d much rather deal with that, if he’s being honest. Through the doors, the lights are a different shade of cold green and the floor tiles are tinged yellow, though Derek assumes they were once closer to white. There’s a long booth in front of him, more like a small room, glass separating the woman inside from the rest of the world, with hallways on either side. There’s a sitting area to his left with a few armchairs, but no couches, with a couple of people speaking quietly to each other. Derek treads carefully to the window.

“I’m here to visit Stiles?” He questions, as if he doesn’t understand how the sarcastic, jittery teenager he used to know could be in a drab place like this (and he almost doesn’t, really.)

The woman looks down at the papers in front of her, brow furrowing a bit, brightly colored lips pursing. She scans things over twice.

“There’s no Stiles here.” She looks back up at him, confused.

Derek’s heartbeat picks up in fear, but only briefly before he realizes.

“His last name is Stilinski. He goes by Stiles.” He tries to peek down onto the sheets, but the counter is too high and her desk is too low.

She glances back down at the papers,

“Ah! Here he is.” She mumbles, scribbling something down on what Derek is assuming is a list of inpatients.

“I’ll make sure they know to call him that.” She beams up at him.

Derek wonders exactly how out of it Stiles was when he got here that he hadn’t even made it clear that he didn’t go by his legal first name. Derek feels like he should have gone with him. The feeling grips his heart tightly. The woman behind the counter seemingly doesn’t notice the terse expression on Derek’s face as she turns and wanders deeper into the booth, talking quietly to another woman. The second woman exits a door in the back of the booth and comes around the outside to greet Derek.

“Right this way.” She smiles, nodding her head down the hallway to the right.

 "It'll be easier the more you visit"

Derek flinches at the words, knowing she means the process of coming and going and making his way around, but it feels like she's referring to the incredible anxiety coursing through him. He follows her as she goes, walking past identical doors, down to the end of the short hall. It stretches back around the booth and connects with the other hall in a big loop, more sitting areas near the back, a treadmill sitting listlessly near the window in the back of the ward. The woman knocks on the very last door on that side of the hall.

“Visitor!” She chimes cheerily, as if it’s going to put Stiles in the mood to see him.

Derek guesses that he at least didn’t not want to see him, since he was allowed through at the check-in. He hears a shuffling behind the door, though the woman who had helped him already has her hand on the doorknob, seemingly ready to throw it open if Stiles didn’t come open it himself. Sure enough, it opens, albeit somewhat slowly. Stiles stands there, eyes tired. Derek isn’t sure why, but he imagined Stiles in some sort of hospital garb, but he’s just standing in a familiar t-shirt and cargo shorts that Derek has never seen. He guesses Stiles’ father had brought the clothes.

“I’ll leave you two to your visit then.” The woman smiles, turning to walk back to the booth.

“Visiting time ends at 5!” She shouts back over her shoulder as she remembers.

Derek looks down at Stiles, who seems exceedingly short in this place, with that posture, his hair not styled up like usual. Stiles isn’t looking at him, but steps aside anyway to let Derek into his room. Derek steps in cautiously, like he’s invading some sort of privacy that he knows Stiles doesn’t really have here. The room is bleak, all white furniture and blue sheets and no curtains or blinds. The windows are thick and double-pane and, Derek assumes, very hard to shatter.  There’s a bench attached to the wall under the window. There’s a door that’s slightly ajar leading to a bathroom that doesn’t lock. There’s a dresser, which surprises Derek somewhat. There’s a nightstand with a book resting on it. There's one chair, one that reminds Derek of a hotel room. And then there’s Stiles.

Stiles is standing with his hands in his pockets, clenching his jaw, eyes meeting the floor instead of looking back at Derek. His arm is bandaged, looking so hygienic and pure that it almost helps Derek not feel sick at the sight (almost). Derek’s stomach is churning, so he find himself sitting with the silence instead of attempting conversation, trying not to stare at the confusing mess that was Stiles (but failing miserably).

-

“We can sit down.” Stiles says quietly, taking a hand from his pocket to motion weakly at the bed.

Stiles can see Derek tense at the sight of his bandaged hand before he moves, maybe a bit too quickly, to sit on the bed. Not entirely sure if he wants to, Stiles sits down next to him. There’s enough space between him that Stiles decides to try to make this a little more casual and turns to face Derek, tucking his legs up and crossing them on the bed. The last thing he wants this to be is awkward, though he knows that's maybe unavoidable. It certainly wasn't going to be fun. Derek’s eyes flash down to his feet, and Stiles knows the werewolf understands why he’s wearing slippers and not the Nikes he was when he was toted away. Stiles shift uncomfortably, but, despite his jittery weakness, he feels more clear headed than he has in weeks, maybe months.

“I wont tell ‘em what happened,”

He pauses, feeling somehow defeated. 

“Between you and me.”

He knows it was wrong. He may not regret it, not just yet, but he knows Derek does, and the least he can offer is to never talk about it again. There’s a nagging feeling of guilt inside of Stiles, guilt that he’s the one who’s been putting these expressions on Derek’s face, expressions that are all together too much to see someone like him.

“You should.” Derek says, now the one whose avoiding eye contact.

“You should tell them everything,” He pauses, inhaling and exhaling slowly through his nose.

“They need to know everything. So they can help you.”

Stiles gut churns. And it doesn’t just churn like it’s been lately, with self hatred and resentment, it churns for _Derek_. Because what Derek just said means that he’s probably prepared to go to jail, for what  _Stiles_ did. He wants to pick up and run away, wants to smash his head into the wall until he passes out, wants to lock himself away in the bathroom in the safety of his own home and rip at his arms until he feels tired and fuzzy. Feeling something like this after so much time avoiding any feeling at all makes him sick, so he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know if he’s ready for help yet, but he knows _Derek_ is ready for him to get help, so he silently agrees. Whether he’s going to mention it here or in the halfway house he’s being sent to soon, he isn’t sure.

“Do you wanna walk around?” Stiles asks, biting the inside of his bottom lip.

“Sure.”

Derek’s tone sounds like he’s unsure if they’re allowed to just walk around, so Stiles tries to flash him a smile, but he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes. He gets up and makes his way to the door slowly, giving Derek a few seconds to gather himself and follow closely behind. They exit the room and Stiles knows he’s worrying Derek with the way he’s shaking his hands at his sides as they make their way down the hall, past the treadmill and behind the booth.

The anxiety started to creep in a few hours earlier and Stiles wishes he could have something for it, just one drink, something to keep the impending withdrawal at bay. But he’s here now, put himself here, so he tries to walk when he can, fearing that it’s going to pick up before tomorrow’s over. He’s never been through any kind of withdrawal before and he’s terrified. Destroying himself is one thing, he can control when and where he does that, but the potential of his body seizing him suddenly and against his will is disturbing. Derek flicks his gaze to Stiles quickly, turning his upper body as if he’s about to catch his fall. Stiles knows he can smell the wave of dread wash over him, but he doesn’t ask about it. Stiles decided to give him this one anyway.

“I’m glad you stopped by before...” He trails off, not knowing how to finish his sentence.

Derek looks confused, his brow knitted faintly.

“I- Uh, I don’t know-” Stiles fumbles over his words, never knowing he’d need to articulate this kind of situation to someone.

“They say withdrawal symptoms can pick up at any time. It’s different for everyone, so they couldn’t tell me much. I’m just under watch...” He trails off again, his head throbbing a bit, causing him to squint.

“It might be easy, but it could be hard. They could only tell me vaguely how long it’ll last.” Stiles looks out a window that they pass by, glimpsing only a dreary expanse of town and hospital campus.

“So I’m just glad you got here when you did.” Stiles feels like he may have worded that part strangely, may have meant to say it yesterday at the club or yesterday when he was being hoisted into an ambulance or any of the times Derek has saved his life.

“I can come back tomorrow...” Derek trails off this time.

“It’s fine. I don’t know if I’d want you to see me like that, if it happens then.” Stiles gives Derek a quick glance as they round the corner to the front of the booth, near the doors.

They passed by a room Derek apparently hadn’t noticed, his eyes lingering, all chained in windows and dim, but inside there are maybe 15 people, all watching a TV screen on a large AV cart like the ones Stiles remembers from high school. There’s lunch tables and one of them has bowl of popcorn on it. It's movie night, but Stiles opted for visiting with Derek like this instead.

“Just call me if you want me to stop by. I’ll give the office my phone number for you.”

Stiles nods silently, staring down at the stained tiles. What else was there to say? He knew he should say sorry, to tell Derek that he’s going to get better. But right now, Stiles wasn’t sorry, and he didn’t feel like he was ever going to get better. The emptiness in his chest was so powerful he can barely remember what life was like without it. He wonders if it was always there, if the Nogitsune nestled in easily to the open expanse in him.

They sit down wordlessly in two of the armchairs in the sitting area near the front doors, but Derek leans forward onto a elbow on his knee, leaning toward Stiles like he was about to say goodbye, or “well, about that time, I better get going,” or “good luck, buddy, I’m out of here”. And for some reason, Stiles didn’t want him to say goodbye yet. If Derek said goodbye, then he had no idea when he would see him again. Stiles was probably going to be in some program in Northern California for who knows how long, and if he told the team waiting there to work with him what he’d done with Derek, Derek could be sent to jail. Stiles wasn’t thoroughly familiar with the laws, not exactly, but he knew jail was a possibility. And suddenly he feels a great longing, a longing so strong that it almost feels like it could fill the void in him.

If this was goodbye, or even a ‘see-you-in-god-knows-how-long’ then Stiles wanted to do it right. He didn’t want to have an awkward and stunted semblance of a farewell. Derek was too important for a goodbye like that, even if Stiles had always denied that in his head, even if he was only realizing it just now, even if he only just understood why we was going to Derek when he wasn't going for more alcohol. So he stood, probably too stiff and too tired, and he maneuvered his weak and worried body in front of Derek, and he dropped to his knees, and he reached out, and he  _clung_. He clung with as much heart as he could muster to Derek’s chest, tucking his face into the crook of the older man’s neck and praying that he wouldn’t cry.

-

Derek was surprised, to say the least, tensing under Stiles grip like he was expecting a punch to the jaw. But he caught on quickly and fluidly, wrapping his arms around Stiles and pulling him in without thinking. The shifting was awkward and Stiles’ breathing was too loud in his ear, but he couldn’t do anything but pull the boy closer in to him, both finagling their bodies so Stiles was straddling Derek, arms wrapped so tightly around his chest that he could swear for a moment Stiles was more than human.

“I’m sorry.” Derek whispered.

Stiles laughed, but it sounded more like a sob.

“Shut up.” He chocked out.

Derek couldn’t help but feel like he could have done better. He could have paid closer attention to all of his nagging emotions and just paid Stiles some attention. Sure, he was younger, and sure, Derek had never even considered being with another guy, but he could have at least helped the kid out instead of pretending they were nothing more than sort-of friends who sometimes saved each others lives. Instead of pretending like he didn't wish they at least had a little more. He should have noticed earlier, or done something about it when he finally did, after that day back in December. But it was Spring now and the sky drizzled occasionally and the sun was coming back and Derek couldn’t fucking turn back time. So he was going to do what he could to help now, and that was supporting Stiles’ recovery.

“You’re going to get better, okay.” It should have been a question, but Derek knew it wasn’t.

Stile was going to get better. He was too damn stubborn not to get better. And then the boy was crying, the salty smell of tears alerting some sort of instinct in Derek as he held him closer. He could smell doubt and fear and a hundred other emotions he didn’t have names for seeping out of Stiles. But somewhere, underneath the mess, he could sense hope, and he could feel affection. And even that tiny, silent glimpse of positivity took a few bricks off of his chest.


	5. Till the Cows Come Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS A VERY SILLY CHAPTER its sad and fluffy and kind of short and it talks about cows and im so sorry this is probably nOT what you were expecting
> 
> next chapter could be the last ?????? how sad, huh!! if you guys have any suggestions on how to end it, feel free to give me your two cents. stuff isn't concrete yet. I WONT BE WRITING OVER THE WEEKEND! i spend my weekends with my partner and try not to be on the computer the entire time ha haaaa

Derek’s sentence is short, but it’s not any less grueling than he though it would be. There’s no privacy, his cell mate is always in the room whenever he has to use the small, metal toilet and half of everyone showers at the exact same time. He’s in his cell for 22 hours a day, sometimes more, and the time he spends out is never as refreshing as he hopes it will be. Getting books is hard, even though Derek has more than enough money on him when he’s taken in to buy them through the county jail. The food reminds him of high school, but it’s always hard for him to eat with the glaring sounds of 80 other inmates all around him constantly. The sounds at night are annoying at best, other times they’re concerning. His jumpsuit is uncomfortable. His cellmate changes a few times and one of the guys is entirely unbearable, always trying to talk to him. It’s tiring and boring and frustrating, yes, but then there are Stiles letters.

The letters start after a couple of weeks of Derek’s sentence. They’re addressed from a town Derek’s never heard of in California and sometimes there’s a smudge of dorito powder on the corner. The first time Derek gets one, his heart sinks. He’s afraid it’s going to be full of bad news or apologies that Derek doesn’t deserve to hear and that Stiles shouldn’t worry about giving. But he opens the letter and it’s short and it’s not bad, Stiles tells him what his room at the treatment center looks like and complains a little about still not being able to have regular shoes. He lets him know that going through withdrawal wasn’t as bad as he thought it was going to be, but still one of the hardest things he’s ever gone through anyway. And then he ends it with “I miss you,” but it’s written from a slightly different angle and Derek can tell he debated adding it on before sending it.

The letters come usually three days a week, and Derek is glad that Stiles has enough sober down time these days to write so much. He doesn’t write back at first, feeling like he hasn’t earned that privilege yet, like he still has to sit through some punishment before he lets himself. And Stiles seems to understand that because he keeps sending letters anyway, sometimes short and tired, but sometimes longer and maybe even a little optimistic. Occasionally he gets a long one that’s hard to read, and he’s sure Stiles is just using those ones as catharsis more than wanting to keep in touch. He feels like he has some sort of grasp on what’s happening, feels a little better every time Stiles gives him new information on what his surroundings looks like or the people’s he’s met there. He tells Derek they had to choose somewhere so far North of Beacon Hills because this is the only place that has knowledge about anything supernatural, and he says that helps them understand why he writes to Derek so much somehow. Sometimes Stiles asks him questions about jail, like if he’s bored as hell or if the food is as awful as he imagines. He asks even though Derek hasn’t replied to any of them before, but just reading the questions makes him feel a little closer to Stiles.

-

Stiles packs light when he leaves. He doesn’t want anything that smells like a club or puke or anything that he’s stretched at the sleeves out of anxiety, plus he doesn’t have much time. His dad takes him to buy a few things on the trip up, just some t-shirts, jeans, rubber boots (Stiles hears there’s a small farm to work on there), and a coat. It’s not that much colder in Northern California, but Stiles doesn’t travel much and he’s afraid of the change, so he also buys some thick socks and some gloves. They keep him at the hospital until the worst of his withdrawal passes, which is thankfully not even a full week. He doesn’t get seizures and he doesn’t get hallucinations, and Stiles is profoundly thankful for that because he had a hunch that those things may have landed him in the psych ward for another few days afterward (not that he was looking forward to going to treatment).

The drive North is long and Stiles has a throbbing headache the entire eight hours. His dad doesn’t say much to him on their way, and Stiles is glad for the quiet. He’s had people prodding at him for days and days and trying to talk candidly at all about his emotions was so draining he felt nearly dead. He’s so physically and emotionally tired that he doesn’t even crack a smile when they drive through a town called “Weed”, though he does kind of register it as amusing in his brain. The scenery is a bit desolate as they go, but Stiles doesn’t mind because his brain is a little blank anyway and he doubts he’d take much of it in right now.

“You gonna be okay?” His dad asks as they turn off toward the woods in the distance.

Stiles knows he’s asking about being away from home, about being in the middle of the woods in a town that maybe doesn’t contain anything other than the treatment center and a gas station, but his defense raises for a second. For a second it’s as if he’s supposed to tell his dad he’ll do good here and it’ll be easy or that he wont come home and fall right back into his pattern of self destruction. He couldn’t tell him that, he doesn’t know that, so he’s glad that’s not what he’s asking about.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

Honestly, Stiles couldn’t care less about being away from home. Beacon Hills is a death trap for someone like him, a psychologically frail human who tries to run with the wolves, and he’s glad to escape it for a while. There’s nothing for him back home right now, after alienating nearly everyone in his life. The only person who was ready to pay him any mind near the end was Derek, and he’s gone, too. Stiles stares languidly out the window, wondering if Derek will be out on parole or bond before Stiles gets home. He tries to distract himself from the thought, and it’s almost doable with the headache still trying to knock him out aggressively. If he’s going to be able to assimilate back into the Beacon Hills life, he’s doesn’t know. At this point, it feels like there’s no turning back, like he’s trashed himself so hard and so consistently that having his old life is impossible. He wishes he could go back to the time before werewolves, before kanimas and chimeras and the Nogitsune, before any of that. Or at least that’s what he tells himself usually, but then he isn’t sure if he would have met Derek. He shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose when he realizes he’s thinking about the man again.

Stiles settles in eventually. He dreads therapy most every day and he doesn’t want to talk about alcohol anymore. He doesn’t want to be around these people constantly stashing cigarettes and complaining loudly about being trapped here. He just wants to be left alone for a while, and he doesn’t get enough of it. When he does have spare time he’s writing Derek letters for some reason or tending to the small herd of cows on the property. Cows are something Stiles has never really thought about, but he quickly learns to love them anyway. He reads  _Animals in Translation_  almost purely because he knows the author has worked extensively with cows and then he craves something just as interesting but more relatable, so he reads  _Animal Madness_ , and then he reads it two more times. Most days are hard, and none of them are easy, but Stiles never once wishes he could go home. Some days he wishes he could take off and find some no-name town, forget all the work he’s done and just binge drink the days away. Some days he feels like screaming and crying like a child. Some days he gets in trouble for not getting out of bed on time. Some days he thinks too much about how good it feels to see his own blood. Some days he’s especially honest with his team. Some days he jerks off in the shower, despite knowing that there are two werewolves living in the house. He thinks about Derek every day, though.

_Hey Derek,_

_They gave me a disposable camera, but I mostly just took pictures of the cows. Can you tell I like the cows yet? They got them printed for me, but you can hold onto them until I get back (I’m lucky enough to get to see these big pink noses in person!). Hope my cow friends can cheer you up a little._

_-Stiles_

He finishes his bag of doritos, dumping the crumbs into his mouth before licking his fingers and stuffing the letter into the envelope with the photos. Some of them he keeps for himself, but just the ones that are similar enough to others. He figures if the cows are helping him they might be able to help Derek, too. Stiles wonders if the cows have some sort of freaky healing powers.

-

Derek receives an especially thick envelope one day, and for a moment is concerned that Stiles may have written an obsessively long letter. He opens it and is at first relieved that it’s just photos, and is then terribly excited that it’s photos. Reading about Stiles’ life away is one thing, but seeing pictures is the most exciting thing Derek can imagine, here and now, in this bleak jail full of grey inmates and ill-fitting jumpsuits. He reads the letter first and finds himself grinning uncontrollably. Stiles has mentioned the cows a few times, and Derek knows some of the fancier treatment centers have horses and do “equine therapy”, but he’d never heard of bovine therapy. With this letter, he realizes just how much Stiles is changing, and in the back of his mind he finds himself thanking the cows. With this letter, Stiles is almost starting to sound like himself.

He flips through the photos slowly, eyes scanning each one eagerly, even the ones that are from just-barely different angles. The pasture is small and simple, and beyond the fence behind the cows Derek can see a forest full of evergreens and mosses. One of the photos shows a cow sticking it’s tongue out and up onto it’s nose, and Derek actually finds himself chuckling, earning a glance from his cellmate. While he looks through the photos he almost forgets where he is, that he’s been in a jail cell for nearly three months. He forgets the routine and the colors and the smells and the awful yelling that keeps him up at night. He imagines Stiles trying his hardest to get out of bed, knowing that he’s going to go out and see the cows, and he imagines Stiles bravely walking through the door to the psychologist’s office every day, forcing himself through it. And so for the first time Derek writes a letter back.

-

The morning feels too early for Stiles one day. The sun is beginning to rise slower, letting the darkness linger in his room for just a bit more each day. He doesn’t want to get out of bed, doesn’t think he can stomach a breakfast , doesn’t even care to see the cows. But then there’s the knock on his door, and he knows he’s supposed to get up. He knows he’ll get talked to if he doesn’t get up, and he wants to talk even less than he wants to get out of bed, so he does. And it doesn’t make him feel strong or brave or determined, it makes him feel worse. Makes him feel weak. Stiles pushes the cereal around in his bowl that morning, ignoring the conversation the other patients are trying to make with him. Usually, Stiles calls them his friends, they’ve spent a lot of time and group therapy sessions together, but today he wouldn’t call them anything, wishes he didn’t know anything about them.

Later, Stiles sits in his room, staring at a blank piece of paper like a letter will write itself. He wants nothing more than to talk to Derek right now, but he’s not getting any letters back and he’s fucking tired. The logical part of him knows that writing a letter is probably excruciating for Derek, knows that it’s just him being the same old emotionally stunted sourwolf he’s always been. But the part of him that likes to gnaw at him tells him that Derek doesn’t care enough to write, and it’s confusing. He grips the pen tighter in his hand, regret and abandonment and self loathing coursing through his veins. The pencil in his hand starts seeming like a good out, like an old friend, like something to draw his blood and calm him down.

And then there’s a knock on the door.

“Letter!” One of the staff calls.

Stiles heart nearly leaps out of his chest. He tries not to be excited, tries to tell himself that it’s just a letter from his dad even though his dad has never sent a letter, only called. He hops out of his chair surprisingly fast, and he’s a bit embarrassed at himself.

“Thanks.” He says meekly as he opens the door.

The aide hands him the letter, giving him a sad and knowing smile. He’s going to have to go to therapy today, and the aide knows it, so luckily she doesn’t ask what’s going on with him today. He closes the door and sits on his bed, looking over the envelope. It’s long and looks like a legal envelope and the address is printed on, not written. The only sign it’s from Derek is the handwritten name above the address. Even before opening it, he longs for more something, for more information. He wishes it smelled like Derek, or had a smudgy graphite fingerprint. After a long while he opens it, falling back onto his bed because he’s not sure if he’ll be able to stay sitting.

There’s no salutation on the letter.

_Thanks for the cow pictures. They did cheer me up. Do you know yet when you get to go home? I think I might be out next month. Sorry for taking so long to write back. Please keep writing me._

_Derek_

_P.S. Tell the cows hi for me (and thank you)._

It’s short and it’s blunt and it contains almost no information, but it’s somehow everything Stiles could have asked for, and he knows deep down how much it took for Derek to write it.

That evening he musters the strength to go outside to see the cows. He perches on the wooden fence, leaning over it to pat one of them on the big, flat expanse on the top of her head. He silently conveys Derek’s message to them. While he isn’t exactly sure why Derek wants to thank the cows, he doesn’t think it was for modelling.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I know some of this can be really, really sensitive subject matter for a lot of people, but please don't think that I'm speaking to any of this without prior knowledge! Alcoholism runs deep in my family, as well as drug addiction, and I struggled with self-harm for 7 years. I will not touch bases on anything in this fic that I don't have experience with (including mental institutions), so please keep that in mind. I obviously do not speak for everyone who has experienced any of these things first or second-hand!


End file.
